


Time Enough

by Zimra



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Turgon is not alive in this fic but he is discussed a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 23:55:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11115573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zimra/pseuds/Zimra
Summary: Idril does not mourn her father after the Fall.





	Time Enough

**Author's Note:**

> This was actually written in 2014 in response to a Tumblr prompt, but I only just got around to cross-posting it here.

She wanted to rage and scream and curse Maeglin for delaying her; she’d meant to go back for her father, to drag him out of his tower, out of the city that he had been determined to hold until the very end, but by the time Tuor found her there was no time to turn back. And now the mountains rose bleak and cold around them, and her people were tired and hurt and there was never enough food to go around, and she did not have time to be angry.

 _Would he even have listened?_ said a treacherous voice in the back of her mind, but she shoved it away and concentrated on comforting a tearful Eärendil, who had fallen on the uneven path and scraped both his knees. She helped clean and cook the animals the warriors managed to kill (it had been more than a century since she’d hunted in Tumladen with her aunt, but at least she remembered enough of what Aredhel had taught her to be useful). She offered her services to the healers, changing bandages and holding patients still while their wounds were sewn shut and sitting up all night with elves who didn’t live to see the dawn.

_You saw his face when the walls of the city fell. He was already gone._

Even after they left the mountains there was no time to mourn. Idril tried her best to make sure that no one strayed too far from the river, and after one young girl drowned she watched the children closely so that none of the others fell in. She helped fend off several brief attacks by roving bands of Orcs and wild beasts, and oversaw the burials whenever the raids claimed lives. When at last they reached the sanctuary of Nan-tathren, which Tuor told her confidently was under Ulmo’s protection, she had her hands full making sure everyone got settled as the survivors of Gondolin prepared for a much-needed rest.

Then one day, when even the worst wounded had recovered as much as they ever would, Eärendil and the other children ran about making as much noise as they pleased, and the sun shone down out of a cloudless sky for the first time since the Fall, Tuor returned from hunting to find his wife sitting alone beneath one of the willow trees. 

He sat down beside her and, when she did not greet him, waited patiently for her to speak. Idril wiped at her eyes and said, “You know, Aredhel told me once that after my mother died, he said he wished it had been him instead of her. He’s with them now, all the people he thought he should have died for: my mother, Aredhel, his father and brother - he wanted to die for his city and his people, and some days I hate him for it because he’s not here with me.”

She felt as if something had come loose inside her, and her whole body shook with sobs as though it was determined to compensate for weeks of pent-up grief in just a few minutes. Tuor wrapped his arms around her, and she leaned against him and let the outburst run its course.


End file.
